Lorraine Mace

Notes from the Margin — November 2009

Text Box: Whooping and Hollering I talk to my computer. Actually, I plead with my email inbox to only receive nice messages. As each little envelope arrives, it becomes the recipient of my hopes for what the message might contain. It also bears the brunt of my disappointments, but hey, that’s what inanimate friends are for. I emailed a non-fiction proposal to a publisher. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and no reply arrived. So I telephoned, only to discover that my carefully constructed proposal was still languishing unread in the publisher’s inbox. “So sorry,” he said. “I’ll tell you what, as I’ve taken so long to get round to this, I’ll look at it right now and give you an immediate decision.” I held the phone so tightly it almost cracked. My hopes soared when he chuckled, and plummeted when he sighed. “Hmm, I think I have just the slot for this. I’m looking for a short humour book for our Christmas list. It will need some changes, but if you could do a revised proposal and send it to me as soon as possible, I’ll put it to our next editorial board meeting.” I need to digress slightly at this point to explain my celebratory levels. When an article or short story gets accepted I give a fist pump. Nothing excessive, just a quick punch in the air and then I get on with the next task (okay, I admit it, I also do handstands inside). When something really out of the ordinary happens (such as receiving the letter to say I’d won a prize in the Petra Kenney Poetry Competition – I’m no poet!) then I go over the top with joy. I dance around like a demented Indian squaw who has just been given her first tepee. Dignity and self-respect disappear completely as I whoop and leap. Unfortunately, the room I use to work in has double-doors looking out on to a country lane frequented by our dog-walking neighbours. On one occasion I looked up mid-whoop, one hand and one knee up, the other hand and knee down, to see Monsieur and Madame Claireau looking in disbelief. As they walked away, shaking their heads, I could almost hear the words: “les étrangères sont bizarre.” They have been looking warily at me ever since. To get back to the book proposal, an interest such as this deserved more than a fist pump, but didn’t quite warrant the Apache dance. After checking the coast was clear, I raised one knee and punched the air before settling down to rewrite the proposal. The publisher had made it quite obvious (I thought) that the original length had to be cut. Two days later I submitted the revised proposal and received an answer later that same day. He didn’t want a shorter book, he wanted a longer one! Make it double the length of the original proposed word count. A second paragraph explained how they would structure any advance and how it would be calculated. Oh, and by the way, he added, can we have the completed manuscript in eight weeks? Wow! It took a few hours to rethink and decide how I could extend the original idea. I then spent a further day working on it and emailed yet another revised proposal the day after that. “I love it,” he said by return email. “It’s just what we’ve been looking for. Our next editorial board meeting is in two days.” I risked a full-blooded warpath dance without even checking the lane outside – who cared if the entire dog-walking population of France was peering in? I whooped and hollered with abandon. A week passed, then two without hearing from my nice publisher. After three weeks I emailed to find out if the proposal was still under discussion. No return email arrived, and this in spite of my clicking ‘send and receive’ every two minutes for most of the day. After four weeks I called, but my contact wasn’t available. I tried again on a regular basis for a few weeks, but he was either avoiding me or really very busy. Finally, just when I was about to give up and try another publisher, his reply dropped into my inbox. “Many apologies, Lorraine. I did present your title to the editorial board and was due to continue the meeting two weeks later, but in the interim I resigned. I have reason to believe your book proposal was accepted. I'm surprised my replacement hasn't already contacted you.” I whooped and hollered for all I was worth. Then I calmed down and acted like the dignified writer that I am and contacted his replacement. Sadly, this person had no idea who I was, or what my proposal was about. It transpired I’d been dealing with a fantasist. One, moreover, who hadn’t resigned; he’d been asked to leave because of his inability to say no to any author. Not only had my idea never been presented at any editorial meeting, but it wasn’t even something they would have considered. Still, she did say thank you for thinking of them, so I suppose that’s something. And now you know why I talk to my computer – it makes more sense than some of the humans I deal with and never gives me false hope. Oh, I’ve just heard the ping of a new email! Make it an acceptance, please. Pretty please, nicely. Write Away! Notes from the Margin


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